The strain on the roof sounds a groan that is paramount. Weir isn’t sure how it manages to hold the weight of the person, or being, that owns the lumbering footsteps from above. There isn’t much time to think in schematics, there’s a grunt, followed by the scraping of boots on brick.
“What is that Weir, an elephant coming down the chimney?” Darwin pipes from inside Weir’s bag. The demons cease their assault, crowding around each other and the doorway. A few of the little green blighters trickle out into the hallway, obviously in expectation of the something, or someone that is stomping up the stairs. The wooden slats moan with protest but they hold, the figure bobs into view with each step.
A large, hairy, green, monster in a red Santa suit ascends. Rotund to say the least, his belly jutting out from the space between coat buttons.
You’re a monster, Mr. Grinch.
A childlike song fills the redhead man’s mind. A bedtime story told to children during the Christmas holidays, written by Dr.Seuss, if he recalls correctly.
It was a meeting Weir never expected, but he supposed in dreams, nothing could be certain. The eyes are the most unsettling thing about him, flashing with a haunted green light, searing through him with their hard gaze. His teeth are crooked and rotting, forming uneven grey-tinted rows as he opens his mouth to smile. A flick of his wrist and the croquet mallet he’s been holding, flies end over end from his hand. Weir stares at his empty hand, jaw hanging open, how had he done that?
“We aren’t here to hurt anyone, unless you get in our way. But since you are up…”
A crack sounds, bursting with a pop against his eardrum, and a pair of reindeer antlers appear from nowhere. They’re obnoxious and absurd, a brown velvet material over a headband. The same mass produced headband found at each corner store from here to Wisconsin. That foul, growling Grinch wants Weir to help him, to assist him and his reindeer demons on their quest to save Christmas. Then, the Grinch falls silent and as if by magic everything else seems to quiet too. It’s a silence that’s hard to come by these days, when the world is so full of computers, and tablets, and constant ways to plug in. Everything else, except for the commotion that resonates from outside.
He can hear the bells ringing, jingling with a clink as they toss into each other with sweet music. The sounds of a clack and a pop. The sounds his heart knows are magic thrown from foe to foe. Sounds blasting against the still winter air, as two sides fight, each hoping to claim Christmas for their own.
The sounds fade out once more and Weir still stands before the Grinch, the Grinch who waits for an answer. And our dear Weir, as always, has one.
“No.” He says in a breath as he looks at the ground. His hands bunch into tight fists, his knuckles turning white from the pressure.
“Sorry, what’s that?” The Grinch pries, his voice like gravel between large stones.
“I said No! Never!” Weir yells, his chest puffing and protruding with courage. He slips a hand into his coat before pressing more insult upon the green hellions. “We’ll never help a slippery sod like yourself.”
“Hear, hear!” Darwin insists from the canvas bag, in full agreement with his host.
It’s the best plan he’s got in a pinch like this, yanking from his pocket a tube of spray hand sanitizer.
Thrusting his arm forward, he presses a spritz of the alcohol based concoction into the Grinch’s eyes. A yowl breaks from his janky jaw, reeking of foul, rotted food. The Grinch grabs his face, pressing his wooly hands into his burning eyes, stepping back onto one of his demons. The creature gives a sharp shriek and Weir takes this chance to bolt for the door, clutching his bag tightly to his right side. As he squeezes between both Grinch and demon, the ominous Grinch flings his clawed hand at Weir, striking him with such force that Weir smashes into the bedroom window.
It’s a theatrical tumble, head over heal from the sill to the field of the roof. Weir fumbles with his hands, awkwardly managing to latch onto the eave. The ache at his side is outstanding, causing a hitch in his muscle that screams. Darwin shouts from his sack, crying with indignation. “Weir! Weir, blast it all! Don’t you dare let go, don’t you fall on me!” Weir’s amber eyes widen as he shuffles his feet towards the side of the house, desperately trying to gain leverage. The demons, skirt the broken window, peering out with malice. Their eyes afire with fury.
Weir dangles, a proverbial fish in a barrell, open to any manner of attack. A soft tinkling fills his ears, and he turns his head to peer down, a small group of Santa’s elves assembling below him. “Halloo, you there! Help a fellow out?” A pained voice rises from his throat, in desperate need of assistance. The elves chitter at each other, then finally agree to help, shaking their heads fervently at the redhead above.
A familiar crack sizzles against the air and Weir finds himself standing firmly on solid ground.
“Are we alive?” Comes the muffled inquiry of the sack.
“Yes Darwin, we are whole we-” the elves cut him off, clustering around his sack, poking their hands and heads through the folds of material to investigate the voice. They seem pleased with what they find, excited laughter and foreign talk bubbling from their high pitched voices.
“We what? Weir? What-..Oh! Yes, yes, hello. No don’t..ahah..ahahaha, stop! Confound it, stop tickling me!”
Weir looks on amused but at the increase in pitch coming from Darwin, he decides enough is enough- shooing the elves away. “A crotchity thing, ever since he’s been made a turtle. Don’t take it to heart.” Weir assures them, though they do not seem fussed with the turtles grumping. A blast of green light whizzes past Weir’s head, igniting the shrubbery behind him. Looking up, he can plainly see a group of demons advancing forth, and from the opposite end a couple of Santa’s elves marching to intercept them. The nearest helper-elf snatches Weir’s hand, dragging him away towards the drive and the adjacent house. Weir’s side protests, but he is hurried along with no regard to his pains.
It’s not the warm, welcoming sort of house. It’s quite cold, there’s no welcome mat on the porch, the yard is in dire need of tending, and the screen hangs barely affixed to the door frame. Likely from being slammed one too many times. The elves drag him up the steps, open the door without so much as knocking, and wander into the house.
Their greeted with a loud, growling voice, booming from the den into the foyer. “Son of a bitch, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred damn times. WEIR?!” An impressive man stomps towards him, tall and broad. His eyes are dark shadows, his jaw is fine but hard, lined with a few days stubble. His flannel shirt is haphazardly buttoned, the thick lines of a chest tattoo peeking out from uncovered skin. Over his shoulder sits an axe, the kind you might see someone felling a tree with. A black, bird, proudly sits burned into the pine handle. His axeless hand, grips the neck of a Jack Daniel’s bottle- still half full of amber liquid.
“Did you do this?” He gestures his head towards the door, referring to the chaos outside. He brings the liquor to his lips, index finger pointing directly at Weir. “War?-Warshyshippy!” Weir exclaims in realization, elated that Warship would be here to assist him in this dream. What kind luck of his brain to work him in that way, he’d thank himself later. Warship is not so fond of Weir’s chosen namesake for him, his hand clenching the axe handle tightly- the elves swarming him chattering nonsense and shaking their heads.
“Did I? No, no..I did not do this. Or perhaps I did, it’s my dream after all.” The possibility is not entirely out the window. Since Weir was sure this was a dream, his dream, then the entire scenario had come from his own subconscious. “Elves, this is my great friend Warship. The most glorious warrior in all of Beqanna, we are in good hands I promise you.” Weir beams, proud to impart this knowledge on the elves.
“Ahem! Sorry to interrupt, dont mind me now.” Darwin interrupts, feeling forgotten.
“Yes, of course, Darwin says hello Shippy.” He opens the flap of his bag to show the General the tiny turtle inside. Warship sneers, rolls his eyes, and takes a large swig of his whiskey.
The splintering of wood, the resulting crash of noise doesn’t leave time to discuss details, or make further introductions. Warship is obviously cross, “And you led them to my place?!” He throws a knife of an accusation at Weir and the elves, shoving them all aside to begin his own assault on the Grinch’s demons. The one’s that Warship does not engage, turn their attentions to Weir and his jingling companions. Having been unceremoniously parted with his mallet, Weir searches in earnest for a new weapon to wield.
He spots a long, black, cylinder resting on a tv tray serving as a side table. “Ho,ho-that’ll do pig!” He exclaims, making a break for the mag-lite, his injured side hitching into a knot when he reaches it. In one hand he clasps the metal flashlight, the other presses into his hip. For some reason applying pressure lessened the ache, and he stood hunched into his side- watching as demons progressed towards him. A grimace takes his features, and the folds of his bag are parted just enough for Darwin to peek up.
“Weir. Weir remember, focus. You’re in control, forget that the magic is not here. This isn’t a tournament Weir, do what you must to win.” The red headed man looks down at his satchel, a determined look on his face and he gives a curt nod.
“Quite right old chap.” He agrees, righting himself against the wobbling tv tray. He shakes his hand, the one with his mag-lite, testing the weight of the object. Then he waits, waits for them to come because he knows they will come to him regardless. The first demon, he cracks against the jaw, sending the creature into a spin. The second advances quickly, slashing at Weirs thigh, raking the pajama bottoms like butter and leaving two decent lacerations behind. He grimaces, thrusting the flashlight at the dark ones funny bone, which does not feel so funny he hears. The elves are exchanging magic, bolts of silvered light against an eerie green glow. Weir can only hope they are victorious, he is sure to need them again.
When he has successfully gotten past his own threats, he limps towards the elves who have just finished off their own rivals. They’re looking around concerned, checking each other over to asses any damage. It all seems minor enough and they turn to look happily at Weir. Tutting over his leg injury, and poking in his bag to check on Darwin. The tiny turtle calls from the satchel, “Still alive!” as to avoid their tickling fingers.
Through the doorway stomps Warship, a gash over his eyebrow and a burn mark to his bicep. Other than that, the soldier seems unphased by the battle, glowering at both Weir and the elves. “You idiots are going to get yourselves killed.” He makes sure to inform them, stalking away into another room and returning with some bandaging. “Here fool, I’ll not have you bleeding all over my carpet.” He advises, thrusting the roll at Weir and leaving him and the elves to sort out triage.
The house rattles, sending the elves toppling over. Weir grabs a stair rail, Warship returns to the room to see what mess the others have caused now. They're receiving an air assault, balls of colored magic falling from the skies and exploding against the residence. Large chunks of rubble splinter through the air, and Weir imagines this is what an earthquake would be like. The elves jump up, grabbing at both men, pulling them out the door into the street. Another crash against the house shakes them across the dirty porch, sending both Weir and several elves sprawling. The redheaded man manages to twist his body, falling on his backside and cradling his bag to his stomach. “Not to worry Darwin ol’ chap.”
The elves pop up in a hurry, clambering from the porch slats, grabbing again at their two human companions. Their foreign speech is unknown to Weir but he can assume they only mean to say that they have to leave NOW.
The redhead is half limp/running, half being dragged down the street by his small companions. Warship brings up the rear, deftly smashing the onslaught of green minions that seek to cause harm. The outside world is chaos, bursts of green light fall in their wake, sending them seeking paths to the left, then to the right. A vicious dog, bolts from its yard, the fence damaged from a recent magic attack. The hairy, brown, mutt, makes for Weir and the elves, as if he has a personal vendetta against them. Weir is in no condition for sprinting and is seized by his injured leg, tumbling to the asphalt as the mutt jerks his limb around. Darwin goes flying from Weir’s bag, turning in the air as Weir watches horrified. It’s like his life flashes before him as he crawls helpless against the ground, pulling against the dog.
There’s a flicker of sun flashing off metal, and a large rough hand coming into view. Warship with one hand, catches Darwin mid air, with the other he (without remorse), chops the mutts head off with his axe. Blood splatters bright and red against the asphalt and Weir’s jeans, the elves look on in terror, several of them with their tiny hands over their gaping mouths. Warship unceremoniously thrusts Darwin at Weir, looking at the redhead with a cold stare. “I trust that scratch hasn’t made you useless.” He gruffs, as Weir takes Darwin in trembling hands. “H-Hardly, just a leg of course. The gods saw fit to grace me with a spare.” He laughs nervously, straining to his feet with the help of the elves, again they flee.
A good five houses down, and the red-clad Santa’s elves, drag both Weir and Warship to a house.
Pillars line the front of a grand abode. Twin gargoyles border the front steps, both in the shape of vultures. The house is warm, inviting, decorated to the nine’s for the Christmas season, and the elves form an elf-made ladder to rap the brass knocker against the door. They call excitedly, jumping down from each other’s shoulders to bombard the threshold, "Yes, inside quickly you lot,” says the man that gives them access to his home. Weir crowds in with the rest, followed by Warship who does so resentfully, probably still unsure why he was helping in the first place.
The house is immaculate, with gleaming floors, and polished hardware. Taking a good look around, Weir’s eyes come to rest on their savior, a grey haired young man. Younger than him at least, younger than Warship by far. He dresses much smarter than either of them. A navy quarter-zip over a grey crew neck tee,and a pair of jeans with the bottoms rolled up to reveal a pair of dark brown, leather, Timberlands. His demeanor is suggestive of a leader, both with a commanding presence and an obvious weight that the burden would bare. Somehow he seems to display a grace to shoulder it, and a knowing smile for Weir. “Can’t say how glad this boy king is to see you!” He grabs Weir for a hug, patting over his shoulders with enthusiasm. “You bring odd company but if I know you, then you have your reasons, and I welcome them.” He looks over Weirs shoulder at Warship, as if his words needed direction.
“Ramiel?” Weir questions, Darwin shifts in his satchel, trying to clamber up to see.
“Is it really? Let me see, what good news finally!” His bag shakes and shifts, and Weir has no choice other than to scoop the tiny Darwin from the confines of the canvas.
“Indeed it is Ramiel! Oh thank Tiphon, thank Talulah!” He wiggles around shouting from Weir’s palm. A loud chorus tumbles in from the kitchen, followed by the distinct sound of flapping wings. A beautiful grey parrot sails to Ramiels shoulder, where it perches and gives a happy cry.
“Oh wonderful, wonderful!” Darwin prattles on, elated at his friend’s presence.
“Come, come in,” Ramiel beckons them all further into the house, “no doubt they’ll be right behind you.” He announces his prediction as they all cross into a sitting room. “Weir, your leg, is it bad?” The young king takes notice of Weir’s limp and bandaging as they enter the room.
“Fine, I’ll be fine, no worries here.” The redhead assures them all, including the chittering elves that dog them. From the other side of the room Warship Hmmphs tracing his fingers along Ramiels jade figurines, and fine leather books. He seems to be searching for something, picking along the shelves, running his hands behind statues and vases. Finally he finds it, an oak liquor cabinet which he opens without asking. Ramiel raises his hand, starts to cross the room, but Warship turns, axe and drink in hand. Downing the amber liquid he looks down at the young man, glaring, daring him to suggest he behave otherwise. Weir determines it is a fine time to speak up, “A drink yes, I could use one, what a grand idea.” Babbling as he limps over, pouring himself a glass of brandy from the reserves.
It’s just now that Weir discovers why the elves seem so taken with Ramiel, how they knew to lead Weir here in the first place. Strewn throughout the house are stockings, presents, christmas decorations of all sorts. They are so mismatched and precariously stacked about, that it is obvious they do not all belong here. Ramiel’s been watching, looking at Weir side long and offers an explanation. “I’ve been helping them secure the gifts they can save, they’ve put a barrier on the house, but they tell me it will not be able to hold much longer.” He appears reflective as he sips his own drink, if only to have something to do with his hands. “I offered to take us elsewhere,” he suggests cryptically, “but it was no use here. Wouldn’t work. I told the elves to fetch you, to bring us some help, you can help the barrier hold right?” Ramiel looks expectantly at Weir, the red’s face only falling into his brandy.
“I’m afraid I’m of no help either. The magic doesn’t work right here, I can do nothing with it.” He relents, tipping the rest of his drink into his mouth.
The house trembles, a deafening boom splits the air, and Weir smashes his hands to his ears. So it seems, does everyone else. The elves scamper around, finding each other and clasping hands, looking nervously around the room at the men. “Well, that didn’t take long” Ramiel sighs, knocks out his own drink, and comes to stand next to the elves. Another boom and the sound of shattering, the elves groans rising in a forlorn chorus. “Well, that it. they’ve just broken the barrier.” The young king informs them, patting the shoulder of the nearest elf comfortingly.
“They?” Weir asks, looking puzzled. The demons surely he thought, but it’s the way he says they.
“The reindeer.” He says flatly, looking up from the group of little people. Weir nods, recalling the pair of antlers he had been offered himself. The ones he knew better than to take. “We’ll fight them off!” Weir announces with importance, digging his hands into his bag. “Fight them off?” Darwin inquires, appalled at the notion, crawling along the shelf where he’s been placed. “You’re in no condition, you havn’t any weapons!” He gripes, not thinking this a good plan at all.
“Don’t worry about me Darwin, we’ll make do.” Weir responds, still shoving things aside in his bag.
“Not worry about you? I must worry about you, especially since you will not worry about yourself.” Stepping closer to the edge of the shelf peeking with his little turtle eyes over the ledge. “What’re you doing? What’re you looking for Weir?”
“Oh, things, this and that.” He pulls bottles, baggies, and nonsense it seems from the depths of his tote. “Ahah! For Ramiel, some itching powder.” He declares, thrusting a baggie at the lad. “For WarshyShippy, a canister of tear gas. Use wisely my friend, it’s the only one I have.” He pats the severe looking soldier on the arm before moving along. “Elves, well, I hope your magic can serve you well.” They all nod, clearly not in need of the man’s odd devices.
There’s a sound of glass breaking, a gurgle of yells emitting from beyond the parlor. Weir grabs Darwin, mouthing a ‘sorry’ as he stuffs him back in his bag. The parrot squalls from Ramiel’s shoulder, clearly some form of battle cry or threat. Their group of misfits emerges from the house, to the porch, where they are greeted by nine snarling reindeer demons.
The reindeer demons growl from the street, their fake antlers sitting crookedly on their lumpy heads. Weir feels like the light has been sucked from the world, a hush falls over the group, and he whispers uncertainly. “Oh my, wish we had kept hold of that flashlight Darwin.” The elves take this as a cue to help, one seems to nod to the others, a steely look on his face. They join around him, each placing a palm against the chosen elf, a somber look in their eyes. From crackling silver magic the three men find themselves armed, and the sixth elf crumples to the porch spent. Warship holds a great shield, emblazoned with two crossed candy canes to join his axe. Ramiel looks over a long sword, gleaming like christmas tinsel, a similar shield appears in his free hand. Weir clutches a war hammer, but he does not take in the detail. He’s still looking at that poor elf, the one who so freely sacrificed himself. Why would he dream of such a thing?
His own shield is adorned with a Star of Bethlehem, and the remaining five elves nod solemnly before them. No time to mourn that brave elf, the dark things are coming, and they best all be ready. From his end of the porch, Ramiel speaks solemnly, somehow knowing what they all mean to say. “Thanks be unto him for this great gift. Fear not, but behold the magic and wonder of Christmas.” Finishing, he shakes his head, as if freeing himself from some spell. Even Warship stands in silence, his jaw clenched tightly, looking like he is readying to strike. Weir turns then, facing the growling reindeer demons, muttering fervently under his breath. He braces for impact, knowing with his injured leg, his weapons may not be enough to save him.
WEIR
edit for typos